


Colonial Rule

by Oxford



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Changing Tenses, Dark, Eventual Romance, Exchange students, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV First Person, Teenage Pregnancy, Trigger Warning - Self-Harm, Trigger Warning - Suicide, Trigger warning - teenage pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oxford/pseuds/Oxford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beauxbatons is a lovely place for Fleur and Bill Weasley's children to spend their third year. Frequent visits to their French grandparents familiarized them with the place, so it wasn't too odd. However, Fleur and Bill's children proved to be more of a challenge than the couple had anticipated. But isn't that true of all parents?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Displacement

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Lots of French, seeing as they speak it and Louie lives in France for the majority of this narrative. Also, if you speak French, feel free to send me a message or comment about my errors, of which I am sure there are many. I am an ignorant American who only speaks English, a little Spanish and some German, so bear with me. :)

Never trust a girl. 

Or that's what my older sister always told me. And since she was my older sister, and was privy to all things mysterious and knowledgeable, I believed her. It was only when she escaped to France that I realized she was talking about herself. But if you couldn't trust your own sister, whom else could you trust? My sister wasn't happy in the life that she lead, I know that now. Back then, I could only see past my own selfish interests. The welfare of my sisters, who acted like they could take care of themselves, was far from my mind. I'm sure  _you_ didn't think much about your older or younger siblings in high school. It just wasn't done. 

It was a tradition in our small family to spend one's third year at Beauxbatons. We spent the majority of our holidays in France as well, with my mother's family, though of course we always remembered to at least make an appearance in the Burrow. My eldest sister hated these excursions, but Dominique and I thrived on them. The two of us were the introverts of the family, and I think our cousins Molly and Lucy would agree the annual Weasley gatherings could be a bit overwhelming. As a result, though I loved and do love my cousins dearly, it can be draining to socialize with them on a regular basis. 

I'll admit, I wasn't all that bothered when Victoire Disapparated to France with my mother in 2013. I was only nine, after all, but I had never been as close to Victoire as I was to Dominique. Victoire was four years older than me, as well, while Dominique only two. She never had time for me, anyway. It was all about Quidditch for her, or studying, or, nowadays, snogging that blue-haired punk. (I'm kidding. I love Teds just as much as she does, if not more.) Coddling her baby brother wasn't on her to-do list. I don't resent her for it. I just didn't miss her. 

Dominique's trip was different. For starters, I missed her the minute that  _pop_ echoed around the beach. And she was excited to be going, unlike Victoire, who screamed and threw a fit and had only dreadful opinions on her return. I knew Dominique didn't like Hogwarts, and I knew why - it was the houses. I don't like them either, personally. They create unnecessary and unhealthy tensions among students. Beauxbatons had no such thing as houses. All the students were one body, unified against the outside world. Sometimes I wondered if Beauxbatons hadn't been a military base in the 1800s or something. I hated her for leaving, just then, though I knew it wasn't rational. She was only going to be gone for the school year (we didn't come home for holidays, something our Weasley grandmother despised). Apart from my previously stated misgivings, there was a hint of something distinctly wrong in the air. A wrongness that, left unacknowledged, permeated the very situation. 

"Be careful, alright?" Our father gripped Dominique's freckled hands in a paternal gesture of affection. Their blue eyes met, hers reflecting the ocean; his filled by her face. I suspected this was a glimpse to their souls. Dominique was distant, while she filled her father's very thoughts. She nodded stiffly, rays of sunlight catching on her tresses and turning them to fire. Slowly, gently, she freed her hands from his grasp, but caught one her lifted it to her lips briefly. Our mother, standing beside her with a small suitcase, rolled her eyes expressively. That was when I noticed it. The wrongness. It crept into the air, darkening the edges of my vision and clouding my thoughts.

"I'm only gone for a few months, _Papa_." The fifth member of the family was missing. Her trademark scowl and derisive scoffs were missing. This was wrong. A glitch in the time-stream. We never send anyone off on a journey without the whole family present. It was reckless; a middle finger to Fortune. I wound the rubber band more tightly around my wrist. This wasn't right. I parted my lips, but no words emerged from my throat. Per usual, I was unable to tell anyone of the wrongness - and  _danger_ \- I felt hovering around our little farewell party. 

"Nine months, Nick." My father sighed and planted a kiss on top of her forehead. "Just be careful. I can't believe you're a  _demoiselle_ already." His accent, obviously, was not as natural as ours, but years of marriage to my mother had turned him fluent. My wrist was turning blue, but I twisted the band tighter, reveling in the pain, for it distracted me from the wrongness.  _Père_ never kissed me on my forehead, or held my hand. I was a man, after all. Men don't need coddling. 

" _Allons-y_ , Dominique.  _Ma mère_ is expecting us." My mother's brisk, business-like voice broke the silence left in his wake. I felt her eyes on me, and relaxed the band around my wrist. A dark purple mark stood out on my pale skin, but I pulled down the sleeve of my hoodie to cover it. Dominique turned towards me, her face withdrawn and distant, but a hint of excitement hovered there as well. She wrapped her arms tightly around me in sisterly hug, and then she was gone. Only the lemony scent of her hair remained. 

**

She doesn't smell like lemons anymore. Purple dye runs down her neck. I dutifully tug the dripping strands of her hair into a tight braid, flinching when she winces. She smells like cigarettes and booze and blood, but I stay quiet and say nothing to her, pretending not to notice. 

"Dominique - " I begin, but she cuts me off. 

"Dominick. _S'il vous plaît_." _Please._ The rawness in her voice makes me pause. I wipe the purple dye off her neck with the back of my hand, and she shudders under the coldness of my touch. With a creaking of bedsprings, I hop off the mattress and sit on the floor in front of her. Her eyes, under which there are deep purple half-circles, are cast off to the side. Gently, I take hold of her chin and force her to meet my gaze. I don't have to say anything. She knows what is unspoken, and shrugs off my hand. "Don't look at me like that, Louis. You don't understand." 

"Then help me understand," I implore her simply. "I want to help." For the first time since it happened, she truly looks at me, and all the pain and despair in her eyes washes over me like the tide. I want to leave, to not have this conversation, because even though I do want to help her, I don't want to deal with this. It is not exactly the most comfortable topic to discuss. I feel terrible to be thinking this, to have this niggling doubt in the back of my mind. 

She sighs, and turns over her hand so I can see the inside of her wrist. Bright pink scars, only recently healed, are slashed through the tender skin. Her voice trembles when she speaks. "You're not like me.  _Il n'y a pas moyen que vous pourriez comprendre_. I'm sorry. You can't help me, Louis." _You wouldn't understand._ I flinch away from her and her words, devoid of warm or passion. It's just a statement. Clearly she believes it to be true.  _You wouldn't understand._

I reach out and take her cold hand in my warm one. " _Tu es ma sœur_. _Je ne donne pas sur vous_."  _You're my sister. I won't give up on you._ For a moment her lips tremble, and her expression falters, and I think she's going to listen to me, but then our mother's voice penetrates the walls, impatient and demanding. She closes up again. I have lost her.

"Louis! _Venez ici_!"  _Come here!_

I scramble to my feet and snatch my camera off the mattress behind her. Before I leave, I pause in the doorway and glance back. " _Ce ne fut pas votre faute_. _Je t'aime_."  _It was not your fault. I love you._  And then I am gone, without seeing her reaction.  _Mère_ is waiting for me in the small kitchen, my suitcase resting on the floor beside her. She taps the side of her leg with her wand impatiently, and frowns when she sees me.

"Where is your  _sœur_? Dominique!" She yells, but I catch her arm and shake my head warningly. Apparently she gets the message, and doesn't call for my sister again. I pick up my suitcase, camera dangling around my neck, and lead the way. There is no tearful goodbyes for me. Once we are out of sight of the house,  _Mère_ takes my hand and we Disapparate, leaving England behind. My vision disappears, and I cannot breathe for what feels like minutes, and then my feet connect with the ground once more. I double over, gasping, and  _Mère_ looks at me in disgust. I have always had a weak stomach for Apparition.  There is a shout from the structure in front of us and a blurred figure runs out, arms waving wildly. I realize that it is not the figure that is blurry, but my eyesight. 

" _Tante_! Louie!" My young cousin, taller than I had last seen her, throws her arms around  _Mère_ and kisses her. Instantly she goes on a tirade of French, speaking so quickly I struggle to keep up. " _Tu m'as tellement manqué_! _Maman était si heureux que vous veniez_ , _elle cuit un gâteau_! _Louie_ , _êtes-vous bien_?" _Louis, are you well?_ I manage to catch the last part, though, for it involves me. Angélique's dark blue eyes, so like  _Mère_ 's, fly to my face, taking in my pallor and sickly expression in moments. Damn French were too observant. 

" _Je vais bien_ , _merci_." _I'm fine, thanks_ _._ I straighten and muster a smile for my worried cousin. She is easily convinced, and pulls my mother towards the house, jabbering in French the whole way. I hang back, and snap a few photos of the picturesque little town. Despite the circumstances, I find the village of  _Plateau de Saule_ putting me at ease. The town my mother grew up in is located in an isolated pocket of France, and no Muggles whatsoever. It is very peaceful. Not many children my age or my sisters' ages, but one or two. I have never been very sociable anyway.  _Tante_ Gabrielle ends my reverie. 

"Louie!  _Venez à l'intérieur et obtenir une bouchée à manger_!" _Come in and get a bite to eat!_ Obediently, I make my way to the house, a pretty thing, painted a soft blue colour that was only a shade off from the sky above it. The edge of my suitcase slaps into my shin as I walk, and I know I'll have a bruise there the next morning. Aunt Gabrielle embraces me, then cuffs me playfully over the head. " _Regardez-vous_! _Trop maigre_!" _Look at you! Too skinny!_  I give her a smile, but I can't find it in myself to make it friendly. My aunt returns the expression, pity in her eyes. I grit my teeth, resenting her for it. I don't need any pity. Once we're inside the house, I set my suitcase down on the kitchen table, where my mother and Angèlique are pouring over a map of some sort.

" _Qu'est-ce que c'est_? _"_ _What's that_ _?_ I ask, and peek over my mother's shoulder.

"A _carte_  of Beauxbatons," Angèlique replies, beaming at me in excitement. "Eet's my fifth year, but I don't have the palace memorized yet. We've got to figure out where your lodging will be, in case you die or something, so I would know where to get your stuff from." The strong French accent in her voice makes it hard to understand, but I get the general idea. Anyway, I appreciate her attempt to make it easier for me.

Aunt Gabrielle sighs. " _Ne soyez pas morbide_ , Angélique." _Don't be morbid._ It was clear this was something she had to deal with every day of the week. My mother laughed, and pats Angèlique's hand affectionately, then turns to her sister, who stands behind me with a strange expression on her face. Is that resentment I detect? Whatever it was, it is gone in an instant. Perhaps I imagined it. 

"Gabby, shouldn't we get Lou up to his room? I have to get back to the Cottage." Aunt Gabrielle looks surprised, as am I. Dominick and Victoire never mentioned Mere rushing off the minute she could. Maybe it's just me. 

"Of course, Fleur. Come with me, Louie." She beckons me with one hand and leads me over towards the stairs, narrow, winding ones that led up to an attic room. Small, but cozy, and a brilliant view of the hillside. It would suit my needs just fine. There were space for me books, and for me to string up my photographs while they were drying. I could already see the strings form window to door frame. I turn to my aunt. "

_"Merci, Tante_ Gabrielle. I hope I will not annoy you and Angelique too much." My aunt laughs and places her hand on my shoulder briefly. I set down my suitcase next to the bed and hurry back down into the kitchen. My mother is kissing Angelique goodbye.

"You'll come back soon, right, Tante?" Angelique begs. My mother smiles, her eyes, identical to Angelique's, showing a love for her niece that I rarely saw. If she looked at me like that at least once I week, I could be satisfied. She glances up and sees me there, and her expression sours. Or you could say it darkens. Either way, it changes. A shard of glass digs its way deeper into my heart.

"Behave for your aunt, all right?" I nod tightly, my throat closing with repressed emotion. "Enjoy yourself, all right? Beauxbatons isn't as bad as Victoire makes it out to be." My mother, cracking a joke? I blink in surprise and grin at her. The English, I assume, is for my benefit. A little bit of home before I delve into this strange but familiar world of  _gâteau_ and  _merci_. 

"I'll miss you, _Maman_."

"And I'll miss you." Mere smiled at me, reaches across to take my hand, gives it a squeeze, and then Disapparates with a characteristic _crack_. I gaze at the spot where she last stood. Only the faint scent of her lavender perfume lingers. The reality of what I am doing, what I am committing myself to, washes over me in a matter of seconds. I wind the rubber band tightly around my wrist, trying to force myself to be calm. Angelique stares at me, her face filled with the wide, open innocence of a child. _Tante_ Gabrielle appears in the doorway.

"What would you like for lunch, Louie?" her French is so like my mother's I am struck by a pang of homesickness. I don't like to think of myself as a sentimental person, but resistance is futile. Who doesn't miss their family? Even people with crummy families miss them. I loop my rubber band more tightly around my wrist, the physical pain distracting me from the emotional. 

" _Nous avons gâteau_!" _We have cake!_ Angèlique cries happily, her voice filled with glee. 

" _Voulez-vous un peu de gâteau,_ Louis?" _Would you like some cake, Louis?_ Aunt Gabrielle asks pointedly, shooting Angèlique a look. My cousin blushes and nods furiously, her pigtails bouncing up and down. I smile despite myself. After the mess of my own family, the Delacours are refreshingly picturesque. As this thought passes through my mind, however, it occurs to me that from the outside world, we look pretty darn great, too. Perhaps their perfection is all a ruse. I wouldn't be surprised if it was. No one was perfect. 

" _Oui_ ,  _merci_." 


	2. Advancement

The Film Diaries of Louis W.

Scene One (Transcript)

Advancement

EARLY MORNING. THE DELACOUR HOUSE.

THE ROOST.

CAMERAMAN (LOUIS) loiters on an open suitcase lying on the floor, an assortment of monochromic clothing and bent photographs spilling out of it. Pan right, to the view out THE ROOST's one and only window. The world outside is foggy and mysterious, but blocked by a row of multicolored flasks. A DOG barks in the distance and a VOICE cries out in response. Pan up and picture shakes slightly, pointing at the ceiling, then focuses on the flasks again, up close. Louis carefully reaches around the glass containers and unlatches the window, forcing it up. The sound of CHIRPING BIRDS fills the room. Picture zooms in on movement down at the end of the lane, and the dog comes into view. It is a shaggy brown and white creature, with a bright pink tongue visible even from this distance. Louis leans farther out the window to get a clearer picture, jolting the picture. The owner of THE VOICE steps into view. He is a boy around Louis's age, medium height and shaggy black hair. He is very pale. 

Pan left abruptly, and CAMERAMAN (LOUIS) nearly drops the camera out the window. Quaint view of a French hillside. Pan right again, the boy is looking directly into the camera's lenses. He grins, and waves to Louis. Louis swears loudly in English and stumbles away from the window. Picture shakes wildly and Louis's freckled hand hurriedly slams the window shut, knocking over one of the flasks in the process. It shatters on the hardwood floor and sprays glass everywhere. The background hum of activity from downstairs grinds to a halt. Footsteps approach Louis's closed door. Pan right, and shaking hands grab a wand from the bedside table. A muttered spell, and the glass reassembles itself into a flask, which he hurriedly places back on the windowsill next to the others. The footsteps are nearer now. 

The picture fades to black.

"Louis?  _Est-ce que tout va bien_?" Is everything alright? Gabrielle's voice is taut with worry, and I am once more reminded of my mother. They are so similar in so many ways. I stow my wand in the waistband of my sweatpants and lean against the door to prevent her possible entry. Avoidant behavior, I know, but she wouldn't understand. She doesn't know my quirks and irregularities like Dominick or  _Mère_. 

 _"Oui_ , _tout va bien_!" Yes, everything's fine, I assure her. A brief moment of silence follows. In a fit of wishful thinking I imagine she is content with my answer and has departed, but no such luck. Every fibre of my being is longing to dart back to the window and search for the beaming boy, but I use restraint and subject myself to a few more seconds' time of torture. 

" _Il y a petit déjeuner en bas si vous avez faim_." There's breakfast in the kitchen if you're hungry. She hasn't given up yet. I dig my wrist into the pointed edge of the doorknob

" _Oui, je_   _serai_ _dans_ _une_ _minute."_ I'll be down in a minute - I curse myself mentally for making such a vow. She would hold me to it, if my mother's behavior was anything to go by. If only I was actually hungry. Then I could at least pretend to enjoy myself. I carefully insert my camera into my satchel next to my books and ease the leather transporter over my shoulder. A bright green flask resting above the doorframe catches my eye, and I snatch it, hastily twisting the lid off and taking a minuscule gulp of the purple liquid inside.  

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this odd little story! Many thanks goes to my friend thraenthraen, who encouraged me not to limit myself in my writing, and a certain dorky German who looks great with her short hair and shouldn't listen to the haters.


End file.
